


These Kids Aren't Alright

by Itsagrifthing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Body Swap, Canon-typical language, M/M, Red vs Blue Reverse Big Bang, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 06:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsagrifthing/pseuds/Itsagrifthing
Summary: Tucker wakes up to hands that aren't his, a high and squeaky voice that also isn't his, and, most importantly, a room that is entirely too clean and absolutely, definitely, positively not his.





	These Kids Aren't Alright

**Author's Note:**

> My first Red vs Blue Reverse Big Bang fic! I was super excited to do it this year, and I was lucky enough to be paired with an amazing artist with a very unique idea-- which turned out great! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you will have a lot of fun reading!

 

“What. The. Fuck.” 

Eyes open wide, Tucker examined the hand that hovered inches away from his face-- a hand that was no longer strong and calloused, but thin and shaky and…  _ white _ . White. So white that the skin on it was almost papery, and could possibly blend in to the stark floors of the base’s kitchen. The hand trembled in the air, an uncontrollable impulse that took every ounce of Tucker’s concentration to simply lessen it to a manageable amount, and Tucker yanked out his other hand from underneath the blankets pleading it was normal.

“What the fuck,” Tucker muttered to himself again as his eyes traveled down his forearms to his wrists then to his hand, passing skin equally as white and-- he froze. Was that  _ metal?!  _

The distant threads of sleep snapped. His heart began to pound fast and heavy as he threw off his covers and practically fell off his bed. Stumbling and tripping over his own two,  _ white,  _ feet, he raced to the mirror shoved in the corner of a room that was definitely not his. He grabbed each side of it, stood it up, and his ungodly hands flew to his face in almost comical horror. 

Whatever weird theories he had been imagining during this time-- the lighting had gone wrong, his vision had gotten messed up, or maybe even Caboose had dumped baby powder all over his bed sheets again-- it was immediately rescinded as he looked in the mirror. 

With those god awful trembling, white,  _ metal  _ hands, Tucker reached up and ran a hair through his floppy red hair.

Wait. He had to stop and repeat that to himself. His. Own. Floppy. Red. Hair. 

And to make matters worse, the red hair wasn’t even the first thing he had noticed. Neither was the giant sheet of metal plastered over half his face. No, the  _ first  _ thing he had noticed was that fucking terrifying-- like, piss your pants terrifying-- glowing red eye that stared at him through a black cavity where his  _ goddamn eye was supposed to be.  _

“Oh  _ fuck  _ no,” Tucker blurted out, but his voice came out high and squeaky, cracking at least five times in the three words he had uttered (if that was even possible). 

He paused, closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath and tried again.

“Oh f-fuck no.” But again, his voice was high and cracking and he was pretty sure he legitimately stuttered. Like, an honest-to-god-gotta-get-my-braces-tightened-and-also-never-get-laid stutter. 

Now, Tucker never did associate much with the Reds. Of course, there was that whole time on Chorus where they were all captains together, and that time they fought and won a war, and that time they threw the Meta off a cliff, and the time where they traveled in… well,  _ time _ and all those times before then in the canyon-- but the  _ point _ was, he had never actually seen any of the Reds’ faces. Not counting Donut. Tucker had seen plenty of Donut that he wished he could efface from his brain. 

It was always Grif and Simmons. Church and Tucker. Sarge and his shotgun. Caboose. Those were the duos, the established friendships. Aside from casual snarky remarks, they didn’t really associate much outside their groups. 

So Tucker really didn’t have much to base his assumption off of, but putting together the white skin, the shaking, the red hair, the metal, and the voice crack, he was  _ pretty  _ sure he was-- Jesus Christ-- in Simmons’ body. 

Once that was figured out-- and after Tucker had to concentrate  _ very  _ hard on breathing in order to avoid hysteria-- he ventured out of the corner to explore his surroundings. 

At second glance, the room was quite obviously Simmons’, given the maroon painted walls and the smattering of assorted posters ranging from Dungeons and Dragons to some space show with an elf. And, as he looked closer, he could pick out more details that were distinctly Simmons. The desk was perfectly arranged, all the way down to the immaculate lining up of pencils in a row, to the neatly stacked, alphabetized and color-coded pile of books. Tucker rolled his eyes. Leave it to Simmons to be so OCD. 

But, Tucker noticed as he straightened up and spun in a circle, at least the guy was dedicated. The room was spotless, almost intimidating. The only thing that stood out was the mess Tucker had made out of the covers on the bed. He had a sudden impulse to fix it. Tucker’s room was probably the exact opposite of Simmons’, with mounds upon mounds of dirty clothes and socks, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had even  _ seen  _ his desk, aka the landing place for all of Tucker’s armor. He smirked just thinking about it. Simmons must be freaking out. 

Speaking of which, Tucker realized, his smile fading, exactly what was he going to do about this? He had absolutely no idea how this happened, or if Simmons was even in Tucker’s body. What if all of the Reds and Blues switched? Man, he wished he had woken up in  _ Carolina’s  _ body. Or Wash’s. Not like he had a choice, but whatever. First things first, Tucker had to find himself. Or Simmons. This whole thing was confusing him already. He threw on a maroon sweater and some jeans (the least cringey outfit in Simmons’ closet), taking great care to not look down. He didn’t need to see anything... extra. 

Just as his hand was reaching for the doorknob, somebody pounded on the door. 

Tucker jumped back, cursing in his awful high-pitched voice, then threw open the door. He opened his mouth to yell at the person, but a tidal wave of gravely words and spit nearly knocked him back again. 

“Captain Simmons! What in name of Wesley L. Fox do you think you’re doing?!” 

Tucker groaned inwardly. Not  _ this _ guy. 

“Um, how about sleeping in?” he responded, busy looking over Sarge’s shoulder for an exit… but the normally sardonic and slightly witty tone only sounded like a twelve year-old boy telling his mom to fuck off.

“Sleeping in?!” Sarge roared, gripping the shotgun he never seemed to put down in a slightly threatening manner. “When there are still Blues to crush? Simmons, my god, what in tarnation has gotten into you!” 

“Jesus Christ.” Tucker tried to edge his way around the old man, but Grif was standing in the way, shoving a cinnamon roll in his mouth. 

“Hey Simmons,” he greeted, offering Tucker second roll. “Want one?” 

“No thanks,” Tucker said quickly, pushing past him as well. “I gotta go guys, see ya, bye!” 

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Sarge shouted from behind him, but Tucker just kept going down the hall, breaking into a sprint as soon as he turned the corner. 

_ I’ve got to get to Simmons,  _ Tucker thought desperately as he raced down the stairs.  _ Before he does something embarrassing in my body.  _

That was one thing that occurred to Tucker during his mad dash to Blue base. What if Simmons said something embarrassing in front of Wash? He wasn’t the smoothest guy on the team, and until Tucker could explain what had happened, Wash would think it was  _ Tucker  _ who had said it. 

He ran faster. 

Miraculously, he made it into Blue base without being seen-- achieved by sneaking in the window on the second floor via tree branch, which was particularly hard with Simmons’ scrawny arms. Tucker would have thought that after holding assault rifles and rocket launchers for years in a row the guy would have bulked up a little, but that’s not the case. 

He raced down the hall until he skidded to a stop in front of an aqua door. 

Tucker banged on the door to his room, panting heavily. He cursed as he clutched at a stitch in his side, overcome yet again by a need for his own body-- a body that could actually handle physical exercise. 

He automatically reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead, but remembered his distinct lack of skin in that general area and sighed, banging on the door again. 

“Hello?” His own voice called out timidly from behind the door, giving Tucker a weird out-of-body sensation. The tone seemed kind of… annoying. Typically, Tucker  _ loved  _ to talk, and from his perspective, his voice was smooth and mellifluous-- but now it just seemed kind of smarmy. 

It was probably just because of Simmons. 

“It’s me, Tucker,” he whispered through the crack between the door and the wall, and knocked again. “Simmons! Open up!” 

Almost immediately, the door opened and a familiar, calloused hand reached through and yanked Tucker into the room. 

The first thing he noticed was himself. 

Simmons stood before him, wearing a white tank top and jogging pants (which was definitely  _ not  _ what Tucker went to bed wearing). Simmons had somehow dredged up Tucker’s old glasses (his eyesight wasn’t  _ that  _ bad!). Dreads hung wildly over his face (clearly the guy had no idea what to do with  _ those _ ) and he stood awkwardly slouched, like he was unused to actual muscle on his body. 

But other than that, Tucker thought as he paused and looked himself up and down, he was hot as  _ fuck.  _

“Damn,” he whistled, eyeing the muscles that were so clearly defined by the skin-tight tank top. 

He sighed in relief to be back in his own room, decorated with his own posters and littered with his own clothes, but it was not all quite as he left it. For one, the miscellaneous junk that typically cluttered his desk was  _ organized,  _ all stacked in neat piles and separated. The drawers were fully closed. There was a pile of clothes in the corner which Simmons had obviously been fully reluctant to touch, and the bed was made. 

His jaw dropped open. 

“What the hell?” Tucker said in shock, turning his gaze to Simmons. 

“I… I organized your room,” Simmons said sheepishly, actually  _ blushing,  _ which was ridiculous. Tucker didn’t blush. 

“Let me get this straight. You woke up in a different room, in a different base,  _ in a different body,  _ and the first thing you did was organize my room?” 

“Sort of…” Simmons muttered, awkwardly kicking the ground. “I couldn’t help it, okay?” 

Tucker shook his head. “You-- whatever. Look, do you have any clue whats going on?” 

Simmons sighed and reached up to run a hand through his hair before he remembered.   
“No. This kind of this hasn’t happened before.” 

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Tucker snorted, as he flopped down on his bed in defeat. “Ugh, why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?” 

“Tell me about it,” Simmons agreed, awkwardly joined him. “What do you think we should do?” 

Tucker shook his head. “We should probably figure out what happened first. I think that’s a priority.” 

Simmons nodded. “Do we tell the others?” 

“Yeah, we can tell them over lunch. It’s probably best to tell them when they’re all together so there’s no confusion. Speaking of which, what time is it?” 

Simmons leaned over to the alarm clock on Tucker’s nightstand. “Oh-nine hundred hours.” 

Tucker snorted. “You actually use military time?” 

“Well, we  _ are  _ in the military,” Simmons pointed out.

“Not me bitch, I’m retired.” Tucker’s eyes widened as something dawned on him. “Oh shit, wait! Wash usually comes to wake me up about now!” 

Right on cue, footsteps sounded outside the bedroom door. The two men scrambled up off the bed, and Tucker pushed Simmons towards the closet. 

“Quick, hide!” he hissed, turning off the lights. Wash pounded on the door outside. 

“Tucker! Wake up! Jesus christ, can’t you get an alarm clock or something?” 

Simmons slid the closet door shut just as Tucker turned the door handle. He opened it just a crack, peeking out, and adopted his best just-woke-up face.

“Tucker, finally, it’s time for--” Wash paused, looking at him suspiciously. Tucker blinked lazily and reached up to casually run a hand through his hair, rocking the whole “sleepy sexy” look, but he froze as a flash of white passed in front of his face.  _ Oh shit.  _ He fucked up. “Simmons?” 

“Oh, uh, hey Wash,” Tucker stuttered. “Look, I can explain--” 

“Is Tucker in there?” the ex-Freelancer asked, frowning. He pushed his way past Tucker and into the room, looking around at the clean room, obviously bewildered.  

“Um, no. Actually, he’s not,” Tucker said hastily. “Look, I’ll send him down if I find him--”

Unfortunately, Simmons picked that exact time to sneeze.  _ Damn it.  _

Wash strode to the other side of the room and threw open the closet doors, revealing Simmons with his skin tight tank top and wild dreads that definitely looked like sex hair. 

“Hey...” Simmons said, waving sheepishly. Wash shook his head as if to wake himself up from a dream. He glanced from Simmons to Tucker then back to Simmons again, obviously drawing up some not-so-far-fetched conclusions. 

“Look,” Tucker jumped in, before Wash formed any... unnecessary thoughts. “There’s a simple explanation for this. Funny story, actually--” 

“Nope,” Wash said, holding up a hand and turning towards the door. “I don’t need to hear anything. Just be down for training in five.” He glanced at Simmons in the closet. “And… just use protection.” 

Tucker’s jaw dropped open as Wash hurried out of the room. 

“We’re not fucking!” he shouted, but his voice cracked and it ended an octave higher than where it started. “God _ damn  _ it!” 

Tucker raced out into the hallway, staring at the receding back of Wash, bent low over a datapad and hurrying away. 

An idea occurred to Tucker. 

“Hey Simmons!” he called, his voice low so a certain someone wouldn’t hear. “This eye of yours…” 

“Yeah?” 

“Does it have x-ray vision?” 

“Of course it does,” Simmons scoffed. “Wait, why?” 

“No reason,” Tucker said quickly. Wash was getting away. “How do I turn it on?” 

“Blink twice.” 

Tucker did, switching to x-ray vision just as his CO rounded the corner, managing to get a glimpse before Wash disappeared. 

He whistled. 

“Nice.” 

 

Tucker forced Simmons to actually put on a shirt, so his body wasn’t just wandering around in a tank top and shorts, while he hurried around the room undoing all the organizing that Simmons had done. 

“I just cleaned that!” he protested as Tucker threw a pair of dirty socks on his desk. 

“I like it messy,” Tucker shrugged in response, defiantly looking Simmons in the eye as he purposely knocked over a stack of books. “Dude, live a little.” 

“I  _ am  _ living,” Simmons muttered, struggling to put a shirt over his head. “I’m just living  _ neatly.”  _ He spat out a dreadlock, and Tucker sighed. 

“Here,” he said, grabbing a hairband and slingshotting it over to Simmons. “It’ll help, trust me.” 

“How did you even get these things past basic training?” Simmons asked, tugging the cloth down over his forehead. 

“Easy. I banged my CO,” Tucker winked, pulling a jacket off the edge of his bed and throwing it over his shoulder. Simmons blushed a bright red-- at least, Tucker assumed he did, it was really hard to tell. “I’ve got a question for  _ you.  _ How the hell did you get these?” He gestured to the metal implants on his face and arms. 

Simmons sighed. “It’s a long story. Basically, Sarge wanted to test out this new cyborg conversion thing, and then you ran Grif over with a jeep, so my body parts were given to him.” 

Tucker stopped. “Oh. Sorry.” 

The guy shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Eager to move on from the conversation, Tucker cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, placing his hand on the doorknob. “I’m gonna head back to red base and do… Simmons things. You go find Wash and do training things. We’ll meet back at lunch.” 

Simmons nodded, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “And what,  _ exactly,  _ do you do at training?” 

A grin slowly creeped onto Tucker’s face as he recalled all the training from Chorus and Rockslide, the hours of sweating under the sun, the days of miserable labor and cramps and muscle pains.

“Dude,” he said. “You’re gonna  _ love _ it.” 

* * *

 

 

The task of getting the Reds to do anything, let alone a whole group meal out at the firepit, was practically impossible. It took nearly an hour of Tucker nicely persuading them to get simply just a grunt from Sarge-- and Grif didn’t even respond. (Lopez, of course, only said something sarcastic in spanish). So when lunch finally came, Tucker had absolutely no idea if they would come or not. 

Tucker nervously sat down next to Simmons on the damp log that circled the fire pit. 

“Can you tell me why,  _ exactly,  _ you two decided today of all days to host a group lunch?” Wash grumbled as he picked the fish scales Caboose kept setting in his lap. He had bags under his eyes, and his shoulders were so slumped, he could only imagine what training had been like. Tucker wished he could have taken Simmons’ place (bringing along his sick new robotic eye, of course). 

Simmons laughed nervously as he shot Tucker a look. “Um, well, because--” Tucker stuttered. 

“Because Donut wouldn’t shut up about how this day is perfect for our skin! Something about the sun being the right degree in the sky, or…” Simmons jumped in quickly, and Tucker winced at how  _ nerdy  _ Simmons managed to make him sound. Wash shot Simmons a weird look. 

“Since when did you listen to Donut, Tucker?” 

Simmons flushed ( _ fuck _ , this whole thing was confusing), twisting his hands nervously-- 

“Never mind that.” It was Tucker’s turn to jump in. “Where  _ is  _ Donut, anyway?” 

“Tanning, probably. I think I saw him down on the beach.” Grif wandered over to the fire, dropping a big bag of berries down next to Wash. “There you go, same as last night.”

Wash looked at it with disgust. “I have no idea how you two like those berries.” 

“Thy taste good with fish!” Tucker protested as Wash not-so-subtly slid the bag away from him.

Grif shrugged. “I’m just not one for eating healthy. You and Tucker can knock yourself out. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go take a nap.” 

“Wait!” Simmons called out, and Grif turned to face Tucker, blinked for a second, then looked at Simmons. 

“Yeah?” 

“If you stay, I’ll give you some of my fish.” 

Grif considered it. “Throw in some of that weird fruit you found and we got a deal.” 

Simmons nodded. “Alright.” 

“Thank  _ god,”  _ Grif sighed, plopping down on a log. “I haven’t had anything that sweet since we ran out of Oreos.”  

“Will one of you  _ please  _ help me scale the fish?!” Wash cried suddenly. “--Not you, Caboose.” 

“Yes sir!” Simmons jumped and grabbed one from the pile. 

It fell silent.

Tucker groaned. 

“Sir…?” Grif and Wash said in unison. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that didn’t sound like sarcasm,” Wash said suspiciously. 

“Yeah, Tucker,” Grif piped up. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I-- er, uh… I mean--” 

Sarge, of all people, chose that moment to barge into the fire ring, clutching Lopez’s head in one arm and his shotgun in the other. Tucker was never more grateful for that trigger-happy, senile old man who sounded like he’d swallowed a pile of gravel. 

“Grif! What are you doing here, lazing around with these dirty Blues?!” He cocked his shotgun as Grif choked on a berry he had snatched from the pile and spit it out.  
“I’m not lazing around! I’m helping!” 

“Helping my ass, you’re just sitting there on a log! That means extra laps for you.” He turned to Tucker. “And Simmons! I expected better from you, you were supposed to help me draw up battle plans for the war against--” Sarge glanced at Tucker and Caboose, then cleared his throat. “I mean… the top secret war battle formations that no one can know about,  _ especially  _ not a certain ocean colored team!” 

Tucker rolled his eyes. “I can probably help you with that now. Let me guess, the first phase is to announce that we are attacking, and the next phase is to actually attack.” 

“Dang nabbit! Simmons, you can’t say that in front of the enem-- or I mean, a certain  _ sky-colored _ team.” 

“Stop with the metaphors, you’re making my ears bleed,” Grif groaned from the log, and Sarge turned to him, pulling out his shotgun menacingly-- 

“Will you guys sit down and help me already?!” Wash shrieked, his voice getting dangerously high. “I said  _ not you, Caboose!  _ Stop putting fish scales in my lap!” 

“Get this guy away from me!” Grif screamed at the same time, falling backward off the log and running over to Tucker. 

“Guys! Stop! Listen, Simmons-- I mean,  _ Tucker _ and I need to tell you guys something--!” Tucker shouted, eager to calm them all down. 

“ Odio todo de ti [I hate all of you],” Lopez muttered as he was dropped onto the ground and started to roll off to the side. 

“Guys--  _ listen!”  _

“Fuck off, you crazy old man--” 

“ _ Caboose!”  _

“Agent Washington, sir-- er, I mean--” 

“ALRIGHT!” 

Carolina’s booming voice made them all jump and the words died in their open mouths. “Will someone,  _ please,  _ tell me what’s going on?” 

“Sim--  _ Tucker _ and I have something to say,” Tucker piped up before anyone else could. 

“Oh! Oh! I know what is it,” Caboose said happily. “You guys are getting married!” 

“What?! No!” Tucker said quickly, and Simmons stood up, trying to move over to where Tucker was. “No, what I meant was we--” 

But before he could finish his sentence, Simmons fucking  _ tripped  _ of all things and that was the breaking point for Tucker.

It happened in slow motion: Simmons’ arms flailing wildly as he fell forward, launching the bucket of fish off his lap and sending it hurtling towards _Wash_ of all people. Simmons screaming in quite possibly the highest pitch Tucker had ever heard--he didn’t think his voice could _go_ that high--Simmons twisting to the side to avoid the fire just as the bucket of fish turned its contents right on top of Wash’s head. And finally, Simmons landed perfectly, neatly, in Wash’s lap. 

Tucker didn’t think it was possible for his body to look more ridiculous than it did right now, as the whole company sat completely frozen, watching fish juice drip down the front of Wash’s shirt. And at that exact time, the headband ripped, sending the wild jungle that was Tucker’s dreads in every which way so that he looked like a complete, and total mess. 

And that was it, Tucker decided. He was never gonna live this down. The  _ one  _ thing Tucker had told Simmons was to not embarrass him in front of Wash. How hard could that possibly be? 

But it turns out, what goes around, comes around, and Tucker, as he realized on the spot, was in  _ Simmons’  _ body. 

It was time for a little revenge. 

“Hey Grif,” Tucker said suddenly, breaking the awkward silence. “I gotta ask man, are you a magician?” 

The orange trooper tore his eyes away from Wash and Simmons, fixing them distractedly on Tucker. “What?” 

“Are you a magician?” Tucker repeated. “Because when I look at you, everyone else disappears.” 

“What?” 

Simmons stood up straight, practically falling off of Wash’s lap, and all the eyes were suddenly on Grif. Tucker grinned. 

“Yeah, so anyways-- hey, I think you sat on some sugar.” 

Confused, Grif looked down at the log as Tucker delivered the punchline. 

“Because that ass is  _ sweet.”  _

Tucker didn’t think it was possible for Grif to blush, but he could have sworn he saw the faintest color tinging his cheeks. 

“Simmons…” he started. “What--?” 

“Okay guys, good lunch!” Tucker said, turning away. “I’m gonna go clean my bedroom,” he winked at Grif, “Maybe somebody will join me later?” 

And then, with a perfect dramatic exit, Tucker strode off to Red base, leaving behind his lunch and the rest of the Reds and Blues completely shell-shocked. He smirked in satisfaction as he heard Grif exclaim: “What the fuck just happened?”

 

* * *

 

He got bored of pretending to clean his room after about thirty minutes, and instead searched out his target instead. After checking the kitchen, Grif’s bedroom, and the basement, he found him in the living room with the TV on and Simmons sitting in a chair in the corner, reading a large novel. Tucker had no idea how Simmons had managed to weasel himself onto Red base without anyone getting suspicious, but there he was. 

Perfect. 

“Heeeeey Grif,” Tucker crowed as he swaggered toward the couch. Simmons peered up from his book, suspicious, and Tucker was deliberate in making eye contact with him. “Man,” he said loudly. “It sure is hot in here.” 

Simmons lowered his book even further as Tucker fanned himself and reached for the zipper of his jacket.

Grif ate another chip, unfazed. 

_ Alright,  _ Tucker thought.  _ A little more then.  _

“Nah, it’s  _ really  _ hot in here.” He moved his hand down slowly, only imagining what he could look like in Simmons’ body. He choked back a snort. He carefully revealed a little bit of skin, then a little more, making sure to make it  _ really  _ sexual. Out of the corner of his eye, Simmons’ jaw had dropped open and he had abandoned his book completely. 

Once the zipper reached a little lower than his midriff, Tucker noticed Grif’s eyes flicker to him and then away really quickly. Tucker grinned. 

He plopped down on the couch next to Grif and stretched over him, grabbing a chip from the bag. 

“You know what? I think I’ve figured out why it’s so hot in here.”   
Grif sighed, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly on the TV. “Why is that, Simmons?” 

“It’s because you’re here.” 

Grif choked on his next chip just as Simmons jumped up out of the chair in the corner. 

“That’s not the only thing you’ll be choking on,” Tucker said with a wink. 

Simmons desperately grabbed for Tucker’s collar. “T--  _ Simmons…  _ Can I talk to you?” 

Tucker shot Grif a sly smile as he stood up. “See you later.” 

Simmons found one side of Tucker’s jacket and yanked him out the room, dragging Tucker all the way out the door of the base and behind an outcropping of rocks behind it. Far away from Grif. It was even hotter outside, so Tucker unzipped his jacket all the way.

“What. _The_ _hell_. Are you doing?!”   
Tucker shrugged. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m scoring you some action.” 

He expected Simmons to sputter, or to flush and get embarrassed, but instead he drew himself up to his full height and--  _ damn  _ Tucker’s body is scary. 

“Hey, hey, what’s the problem? You should be thanking me.” Tucker tried for some light humor. “Or rather, you can thank me  _ later.”  _

Simmons shook his head, frowning. “Stop it. Don’t do that any more.” 

“Aw, c’mon man,” Tucker whined. “What’s the big deal? I’m just flirting. We all know you like Grif anyway--” 

“It’s--” Simmons stopped and took a deep breath. “It’s not like that.” 

“What’s the problem?” Tucker pressed. 

“Our bodies. I just-- It’s not…  _ me.  _ Grif  _ thinks  _ it’s me, but it’s not. It’s really you.” 

Tucker paused. “Oh.” 

“I don’t know… I guess-- I guess it feels a little like cheating.” 

Tucker held up his hands. “Alright, alright, okay man, you got it. No more flirting, I promise.” 

Simmons sighed, nodded his thanks. “What brought this on, anyways?” 

“Easy. You made me look stupid in front of Wash.” 

“And we all know you want to bang Wash.” 

“Wh-- I do not! I--” 

“Sure, Tucker.” 

“I don’t!” 

“Whatever you say.” 

“Okay, so no flirting,” Tucker wisely changed the subject, “but can I at least go watch TV with him?” 

Simmons sighed. “I guess. But Wash is gonna expect me back at training soon so I have to go.” 

Tucker cracked a smile at that, resolving to add training stories with Simmons on the list of things to ask about after this whole ordeal was over. 

“Good luck!” he snickered as they headed opposite ways, and Tucker yanked open the door, heading for the TV room again. 

He zipped up his jacket and he plopped down on the couch. He gestured to the chips next to Grif. “You mind?” 

Grif glanced at him suspiciously as he slowly handed the bag over. “You’re not gonna… You know, what? Whatever. Just don’t tell Sarge.” 

There was something Grif said, something about the way he turned to face Tucker full on, that catapulted Tucker back into a different world. A buried memory.

 

He was in a dark room, unable to see anything-- but he knew that it was small and cramped. He fumbled with his armor, reaching for his helmet, but,  _ damn,  _ he had left it back at the armory. Blinking quickly, he activated his cybernetic night vision and the room was bathed in green. 

_ “Grif,”  _ he said with the familiar and high-pitched voice Tucker was only recently getting used to.  _ “What are we doing here?”  _

_ “Quiet Simmons,”  _ said the outline of a figure standing by the door.  _ “Sarge will hear us.”  _

_ “But--”  _ Tucker started to protest. He  _ wanted  _ Sarge to hear him, they had to get to training! 

_ “Shh,”  _ Grif commanded, peeking out through a hole in the old wooden door. Tucker fell silent, listening as heavy boot steps thudded past the door, getting louder and louder, then receding.  _ “Okay, I think he’s gone.” _

_ “You idiot,”  _ Tucker-- no,  _ Simmons-- _ muttered.  _ “We have training with the Lieutenants now. Hurry up and open the door.”  _

_ “Fine,”  _ Grif sighed, turning to glare at Simmons.  _ “You can go to training if you want to, but I’m gonna go raid the mess hall. Just don’t tell Sarge.”  _

Simmons shook his head, starting for the door.  _ “Whatever. Your funeral.”  _ He reached out for the handle but as soon as his fingertips grazed the cool metal, there was a blinding flash of orange light and an electric spark zapped Simmons to his very core. 

_ “What the…?”  _ he muttered, and the world suddenly transformed. He was aware of  _ everything,  _ the smallest twitch of his heart sounded like the wheels of a freight train. He could see the room in the sharpest detail, brilliant colors swirling together, and shapes and corners and smooth surfaces and… 

He was  _ very  _ aware of how close Grif was. 

  
  


“Woah!” Tucker leapt up off the couch, shaking his head. He did  _ not  _ need to see the rest of that memory. He smacked his forehead with his palms several times, as if he could knock the memory out of his head. Heat rose to his face. “Stop it, stop it, stop it,  _ stop it--”  _ Because that’s how memories are, they refuse to go away no matter how hard you try to forget them, and that was definitely what was happening right now. It was all he could do to keep from remembering Grif’s soft touch on his arms, the fingers running through his hair…  _ “Stop. It.”  _

“Uh, Simmons?” 

Tucker jumped. He had completely forgotten about Grif-- well, the present Grif-- and he froze with his hand comically suspended in the air, halfway to his forehead. He turned sheepishly. 

“...Sorry,” he said, with a forced smile. “What were you saying?” 

“Dude.” Grif waved off the question, “Are you okay? You’ve been acting really strange lately.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Tucker winced at the voice crack, which he knew was a dead giveaway. He cleared his throat, channeling the masculinity he possessed back in his body. How he wished this whole ordeal would be over and done with. “I’m fine.” 

For some strange reason, Grif didn’t believe him. He hesitated, before setting his bowl of chips down on the table next to him. 

“Um,” he said, in an oddly unsure manner which Tucker had never seen before. “Is this about… you know what.” 

“What?” Tucker asked, feeling a strange blush rise to his cheeks. 

“You know…” Grif paused. “The… TOP… thing.” 

Tucker mentally flashed back to that dark memory in the closet, the heat that had risen to his face, the closeness, Grif’s fucking  _ hand.  _

“Nope!” Tucker said loudly, backing away. “Nope, nope,  _ nope _ ! I can’t deal with this. I’m out.” 

And then Tucker turned on his heel, and fucking  _ sprinted _ out of the room as fast as he could, leaving a very bewildered Grif behind on the couch.

 

* * *

 

“Simmons!  _ Simmons!”  _ Tucker screamed as he raced out of Red base. “Simmons, where the fuck are you?” 

“You alright there, son?” Sarge called as he thundered past the Warthog’s garage. Tucker didn’t bother responding, though he could only imagine how insane he looked to the rest of the team. He couldn’t care less about the embarrassment Simmons’ will face once they--  _ if  _ they-- switched back. ‘The Day Simmons Lost It’, it would be called. 

Sucks for him. 

But Simmons was nowhere to be found, and Tucker just needed to get away, so he eventually found himself on the beach. Tucker ran faster and faster, leaping across the hot sand and diving into the icy waves. The taste of the memory was still sharp on his tongue, so he submerged his head completely, rinsing out every orifice with salt water. He ran water all through his orange hair, over his pimples and freckles, over the cool metal bits of him, until his skin was completely dried out and his eye stung and his lips were cracked and dry and he finally and to come up for a breath.

“Woah there,  _ someone _ sure is eager to get wet.” Tucker groaned at the familiar voice as he pushed himself up. Could this day get any worse? 

“Hi Donut,” he said miserably, resting on his knees in the sand. Small waves splashed up around him. 

“Hey Simmons!” The guy’s eyes narrowed and he looked down at Tucker suspiciously. “Or… Tucker?” 

Tucker’s mouth dropped open. “How the fuck did you figure it out?” 

“Well, I could talk big and say that the way you hold yourself is completely different than normal… but mostly I figured it out when Tucker-- er, Simmons-- came up to me and tried to ask me what the best way to conceal a boner is. I mean, I’m pretty sure  _ you’ve  _ figured it out, but--” 

Tucker felt his face grow hot-- damn this body-- and cut Donut off. 

“He. Did. _What?”_ _`_

“Well Tucker,” Donut said wisely, kneeling next to him in the water.“You do have quite a big libido. I’m sure Simmons just needs time to adjust.” 

Tucker shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this--” Something occurred to him. “Wait. You mean, if we’ve switched sex drives… d’you think it’s possible we could have switched, like,  _ memories?”  _

Donut shrugged. “Memories I’m not so sure about. Body swap isn’t exactly one of my fantasies, so I haven’t done too much research--” Tucker coughed. “--but it’s probably possible. It’s not like you guys have switched  _ brains  _ or anything, just consciousness. Why? Have you remembered any of Simmons’ memories?” 

Tucker shivered. “I don’t want to talk about it. Do you have any idea how to get my body back?” 

Donut shook his head. “Like I said, I’m not an expert on the topic.” Tucker sighed. “But… you could try kissing each other’s one true love.” 

“What?!” Tucker shook his head vehemently. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Donut shrugged. “It’s works in cheesy romance stories.” 

“This isn’t a cheesy romance story.” 

Tucker watched as Donut wiggled his eyebrows. “How would you know?” 

He sighed. He didn’t  _ want  _ to do that… but Tucker was getting pretty desperate for a solution.

“Do you think it’ll work?” 

“It’s worth a shot.” 

Tucker paused. Thought about it… sighed. Since when did he actually listen to Donut? But he had to splash more water on his face as that nagging little memory crept back into his brain, Tucker took a deep breath and went for it.

“Alright, fine. I’ll talk to Simmons.” He stood up determinedly, shivering in the sudden cold. This body needed more meat on it, and the dripping wet clothes didn’t help either. Tucker imagined he looked kind of a mess.

Donut handed him a towel. “Go get em, tiger.” 

“Do me a favor,” Tucker said, wiping his face and handing it back. “Don’t ever call me that again.” 

 

* * *

 

Tucker found Simmons and Wash in the middle of sparring. Surprisingly, Simmons seemed to be holding out fairly well against Wash, but then again, he did have Tucker’s abs and biceps, so how hard could it be, really? 

“Hey Wash!” he called out. “Can I borrow Tucker for a second?” The two paused as Wash wiped his brow and Simmons glanced over suspiciously. “It’s urgent.” 

“Alright…” Wash thought about it for a second, breathing heavily (Tucker noticed how his shirt clung to his skin, very clearly defining his chest). “We’re just about done anyway.”

“Thanks, it’ll only be a second. Tucker, come here.” 

“What is it?” Simmons asked, wiping his hands on his shirt and tugging on the fresh headband he had found somewhere in Tucker’s room. “Did you say something to Grif?” 

“No, dude, no, I told you I wouldn’t,” Tucker protested, a little offended. “I’m not  _ that  _ cruel.” 

Simmons raised an eyebrow. Somehow his expressions seemed a lot snarkier on Tucker’s face. 

“But I did talk to Donut, and he thinks he figured out a way to get us to switch back.” 

“What?” Simmons’ full attention was on him now. “How?” 

“Well,” Tucker hesitated. “We have to-- he made it sound so cheesy, I don’t know.  _ He  _ said-- not me, this was not my idea-- that we have to… kiss our true love.” 

Simmons rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a cliche romance story, Tucker.” 

“That’s what I said! And who even is my true love anyway? It’s not like you can just go up and kiss Carolina or something.” 

“Actually, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea who it is,” Simmons said. Tucker opened his mouth, probably about to tell Simmons he didn’t know shit, but Simmons interrupted him. “And what about me? Who’s my true love?” 

Tucker waved him off. “That one’s easy. It’s Grif.” 

“No--” 

“Dude. I’m in your body. I can tell.” 

“...Maybe.” 

“I still want to know just who you think my true love is, because Kai is back at Blood Gulch and Carolina would literally kill you if you tried, and--” Tucker caught himself as a name nearly slipped between his lips.  _ Wash would probably make you run sprints…  _ He felt himself blush just a little. 

Simmons smirked. “Just leave that to me.” 

“But--” 

“Look, do you want to fix this whole thing, or not?” Tucker mulled it over, but he had to agree. 

“Yeah. I have to admit, I’m kinda ready to get back in my body.” 

Simmons studied Tucker’s hands with distaste. “Me too. I mean, no offense, but your body is kind of annoying. How can you even stand up straight?” 

“Hey man, I’ve fallen at least eight times today with  _ your  _ skinny ass legs, okay?” 

“I guess it’s mutual then.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So what do we do?” Simmons asked. 

“Well… I’m feeling pretty desperate. Let’s set a time. How about eighteen hundred hours?” 

“Deal.” Simmons raised an eyebrow. “Military time?” 

Tucker groaned. “I think I’m beginning to think like you.” 

The atmosphere suddenly tensed as Simmons straightened up rigidly and awkwardly pushed up the glasses on his nose. “Have you been getting… memories?” 

“Yeah,” Tucker admitted, mentally pushing away that one memory that insisted on popping up. “Have you?” 

“I wish I haven’t. But yeah, me too.” 

“Then the sooner we get this done, the better. Give me ten minutes to get to Grif.” 

“Alright.” 

“And don’t go kissing Wash or anything! It’s definitely not him!” 

“Just trust me, Tucker!” 

Tucker turned and sprinted back to Red base, throwing open the door to the base and bursting into the TV room.

“Hey Grif!” he called out, skidding to a stop. “Grif--” 

Grif and Donut-- of all people-- paused their conversation, and turned to face him. “Oh hey… Simmons. We were just talking about you!” he said cheerfully. Grif eyed him suspiciously.

“I swear to god, Simmons, if you’re gonna say another cheesy pickup line--” 

“No no no,” Tucker said quickly. “I just--” he checked the clock below the TV. Less than thirty seconds. “I need-- fuck it, come here.” 

And then, without even caring that Donut was in the room, without even caring that half of Tucker’s face was made of metal, without even caring about the nagging visions of dark rooms and locked doors, Tucker grabbed Grif and kissed him with everything he had. 

It wasn’t ideal, Tucker didn’t even  _ like  _ Grif, but he was so focused on getting back to his own body that everything else disappeared. He only focused on those warm lips that tasted slightly like Doritos melting into tougher ones, that soft jawline sharpening into a defined jawline, as freckles dotted the nose of white skin and Tucker ran a hand through fluffy blonde hair-- a hand that was now black-- and Tucker was now where he wanted to be, where he always wanted to be: with Wash. 

“Tucker,” Wash whispered against his lips, and Tucker shivered as a sudden breeze swept a lock of hair over his face. Tucker could feel his calloused hands against Wash’s scruffy jawline, and he peeked one eye open. He grinned. No metal. 

“Hey Wash,” he said back, and he could feel Wash tugging as if he wanted to pull away but couldn’t quite bring himself to. 

And they both stayed there, hands on each others hips, feeling the chill of the cool breeze, feeling the sun beat down on their necks, and everything was cold and everything was hot and everything was just right. 

 

“Man, you guys are still out here?” Simmons’ voice, the one Tucker had grown so familiar with, interrupted the quiet, and they both sprang apart. Grif, Donut and Simmons were crossing the grass towards them. 

“Er, we were just--” Wash started to explain, but Tucker held up a hand. 

“It’s okay, I’m sure everyone here knows what’s going on by now. Man, Donut, I have to hand it to you. You really came through.” 

“Actually, about that…” Simmons glared at Donut. “Do you have something to tell him?” 

Tucker stared as Donut laughed nervously and scratched the back of his neck. “Do you remember those berries I found yesterday… the ones you two really liked and put on top of your fish?” 

“Yeah… ” Tucker said, the vaguest remnants of the memory dawning on him.

“Yeah, actually those were the cause of the trouble. I guess the effects just… wore off?” 

Tucker froze. 

“But-- but--” he protested. “ _ Berries?  _ Is that even possible?” 

Simmons shrugged. “Who knows? I’m just glad that they actually wore off.” 

“And when,” Tucker added, glancing at Wash. He decided to throw him a little wink to make the guy blush. 

“Could somebody please tell me what’s going on here?” Wash exclaimed, but Tucker threw an arm around his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You know what? It’s almost dinner time and I’m starving.” 

“Just no berries this time,” Simmons added. 

“Oh ho, definitely not.” 

The four of them headed out to the firepit, Tucker dragging along a very confused Wash. 

“I got to tell you, Grif. You are one lucky dude. Simmons has got it going  _ on.”  _

“Tucker!” 

“I mean it! Seriously!” 

_ “Tucker!”  _

**Author's Note:**

> Art by a-taller-tale on tumblr
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